


Scary Just Got Scarier; Or The Crazy Adventures in The Very Slow Life of Bob

by ElizaStyx



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bob is flipping over destiel, Choice TV Chemistry, Conspiracy Theories, Crack, Crack Fic, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Poland rules, Humour, M/M, Manly Guys Doing Manly Things - Freeform, Multi, No Homo, Other, Teen Choice Awards, Thriller, Translation, and you all just have to read this, code rainbow, implied light cockles, no homo squad, supernatural crew - Freeform, supernatural writers - Freeform, the ship that cannot be named via the writers' room, this a brilliant fic originally written in Polish by my friend, this is not Bob friendly fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4320552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaStyx/pseuds/ElizaStyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was only one people's voting that could put Bob in such a state. There was only one thing that wasn't letting Singer sleep, just one and only neverending nightmare that lasted for years and bothered him day and night. There was only one thing on this Earth that Bob wanted to annihilate so much that he would be willing to sacrifice basically everything - his own career and the blessing of the CW bosses...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Single Drop of Sweat

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Scary just got scarier: Crazy adventures in the very slow life of Bob](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321359) by [Doctor_Misha_is_my_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Misha_is_my_queen/pseuds/Doctor_Misha_is_my_queen). 



> Hi! So this is my first professional fic translation ever and, of course, I am doing in the wrong way since the language I translate it into should be my first and it's, obviously, not. Typical Lizzie. However, I don't know any people in this fandom who could translate Polish into English so here I am, doing my best and all and I really hope I don't screw up because THIS FIC IS SO BRILLIANT AND HILARIOUS I AM CRYING EVERY TIME A NEW CHAPTER IS POSTED.  
> I just really, really wanted to share this beauty with more people and you can't imagine how happy I am that the author allowed me to translate her precious masterpiece <3 Having said that, I hope I'll manage to show all the perfection of the original here and I hope you'll enjoy this.  
> P.S.: I know I said I would translate my fic first but this, this here is wayyy better than what I wrote. So yeah. And I'll probably translate my work also, one day.

With a fast and resolute movement Bob opened the door to the writers' room. His face expressed perfect indignation, a vein pulsing on his forehead, his teeth clenched together, grinding with a sound resembling one of squeaking on a chalkboard.

Jeremy Carver froze still in waiting as his superior stood in front of him, sighed heavily, took few steps forward and looking into Jeremy's terrified face breathed out "Get me that portal on, right now..."

Jeremy's eyes bulged out and he didn't even notice the coffee spilling on him in a thin spurt. What portal? Did Bob plan on travelling to another dimension?

"Hurry up! We don't have time!" Bob was getting redder and redded, while the hot coffee was running down Jeremy's thigh, closing in on some strategic places.  
Carver hissed silently but didn't move for an inch, fearing he could irritate Bob Singer even more.

 **THIS** Bob Singer.

Boss of the bosses, faultless strategist and a genius of the marketing but primarily the brains behind all the writing operations of the TV series Supernatural.

"That portal with the blue birdie, for fucks sake!" finally Bob choked it out, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "I swear to God, you'll all cause me a heart attack one day... Portal with the birdie... open it up, now!"

A secretary that just walked in with a considerable pile of agreements and contracts, silently escaped the room.

"Do you mean... Twitter?" asked Jeremy hesitantly and with a shaking hand put down the mug that had been spilling the dark liquid over him.  
"Twitter-shitter! That portal where they are running that scandalous voting just now!"

A tense silence fell in the room. Carver went completely pale, swallowed hard. There was only one people's voting that could put Bob in such a state. There was only one thing that wasn't letting Singer sleep, just one and only neverending nightmare that lasted for years and bothered him day and night. There was only one thing on this Earth that Bob wanted to annihilate so much that he would be willing to sacrifice basically everything - his own career and the blessing of the CW bosses.

That one thing was of course the infamous pairing of two characters from the series (super manly, scratch that, **HYPER** manly and ultra heterosexual series, mind you!). A pairing that must not be named in the writers' room; a pairing that had a devoted following ready for anything to make their dream come true on the screen.

Jeremy knew well why those fans were so stubborn, obviously. After all, it was no one else but Singer himself who ordered few years ago to, as he put it, "spice up the atmosphere a little bit" between Dean and Castiel. Spice up just so it would be clear it's not just a simple friendship but also so cleverly balance on that thin line that no one, including the actors, would be able to fully understand what was going on in there. And to prove anything to the main writers, for that matter.  
In his outstanding and sly mind, in that bottomless void of greatness and subtle nonchalance, Bob hadn't foreseen only one thing - the coming of the Age of Social Media.

At first it was just tumblr and all their analyzes. It was still something they could live with - who apart from teenagers visited that site anyway? Nobody. And so they felt safe and their innocent queerbaiting remained a secret of the writers' room. They were doing it for the channel, after all!  
Unfortunately the damned competition had to come into the equation eventually. Instead of fighting that disease the internet is, they decided to use that phenomenon to their advantage, sucking into that crazy spiral also the CW TV, not bothering to ask whether they wanted to take part in this or not. And God, what did not happen afterwards! Trends, tags, competitions, all the  _so what is your favourite ship?_ s, and who should kiss who, and what should happen in one hundred episodes, then the fans being dissatisfied again, someone protesting on the facebook... for fucks sake, how could this happen, just how?!

Bob asked himself that question every morning as he stood in front of his mirror (because how for the everloving fuck, really, could they, DARED they destroy his subtle plan?). He asked the secretary at work and asked Carver during their lunch breaks; he asked his wife as they ate supper, and he asked his dog just before he went to sleep. He chanted that mantra every single day, seven days a week, twelve months in row.

Carver could swear that all this muttering caused Bob a lockjaw since he seemed to be emitting strange squeaking sounds as if his teeth were grinding together, a bit like a rodent of some sorts. Apparently the stress also granted Bob some bizzare rash since he was scratching himself like a verminous dog.

Anyway, this whole conspiracy, that Competetive Television System, CIA (Bob was certain the internet was created to destroy him exclusively) and whoever the hell was also taking part in all of this was a global act, hidden in the spotlights, covered by glamour and the interest of traditional media. And all of this just to make sure his masterfully constructed agenda, so cleverly called _"See no homo, tell no homo, kill more women"_ culminated in a grand failure. Where were those beautiful times gone when they could just throw fans' letters away since no one could account them for how many of them there were and what they were talking about?

Feeling a hot breath of the audience on his neck AND haunted by a vision of confronting the chiefs of the station, who he didn't bother to inform about his genius strategy in the last couple of years, Bob was going nuts from the stress and became unpredictable, causing fear and well-founded terror amongst his subordinates.

Pedowitz only wanted for this TV station a true audience - true as in male, of course. But, certainly out of spite, men weren't exactly too interested in Supernatural. And there just had to be some audience (a house with a view on the Hollywood hills couldn't pay for itself and a solid job in this line of work it's not just something one could easily keep) but the one that they had now, wanted some representation, some **Destiel** and some other unimaginable and unacceptable things (maybe we do have a XXI century but for God's sake, do the medieval traditions really bother anyone?!).

These conflicting interests just had to be compromised to at least a degree that allowed to keep that cosy and prominent job of a showrunner. Who knows, maybe one day some BBC will call, or HBO itself? In that case both Jeremy Carver and Bob Singer could live happily ever after since at last, their greatness, their talent, their sense of both public and the heads of the station would be properly appreciated! Even though the fans called their doings queerbaiting, Carver and Bob prefered the name "a genius strategical-dyplomatic plan" because, come on, wasn't Bob an outstanding strategist?

This surprising yet deep meditation of Carver was brought to halt by the web page that just loaded before his eyes showing preliminary results of the voting. The thing that Bob feared so much was just becoming real. The Pairing That Must Not Be Named In The Supernatural Writers' Room was just about reaching a milion tweets in the category of Choice TV Chemistry in Teen Choice Awards. This result guaranteed, almost for sure, a nomination to the grand first fifth in the second round of voting.

The first fifth of the best screen pairings, the fifth chosen from all the running TV shows. It meant media, it meant attention, it meant talking about this with the producers, it meant...

"Boss" stammered out Carver; he seemed to be even paler than five minutes before."I think... It's time."

Bob nosed like a hamster and scratched nervously a spot behind his ear, his teeth creaked and Carver could swear he heard a mouse's squeak coming from an unprecised direction.

"So the zero hour has come." stated Bob Singer and vigoriously entered a code on the panel by the door to a room the writing headquarters hoped never to use.

A single, manly drop of sweat rolled down Carver's temple.


	2. Into the Darkness

Stairs, spiral and made out of metal, led few floors down onto a level located probably even underneath the basement of the building they worked in. Going down the ill-profiled, ruckling steps didn't seem to be particularly safe so Jeremy grabbed a rusty railing with one hand while the other was sliding along cold and moist walls. The whole construction seemed pretty much unstable and Carver was actually quite convinced he was just about to fall.  
_I trust Bob, I trust Bob..._ was the only thought rattling inside his head as dusty spiderwebs were sticking to his face.   
When he finally felt a steady ground beneath his feet, he sighed with relief. His hands were shaking and he had trouble turning the flashlight on.

His boss raised his arm up and waved few times until he got hold of a hanging string. The room was lit up by a tiny bulb. Carver squinted and took a look around. Grey, concrete walls formed a claustrophobic corridor and before their eyes they could see giant, steel door with a characteristic knob resembling locks of old-fashioned safes.

"Jeremy?" Singer panted, wiped the sweat off his forehead and then looked straight into his employee's eyes; his pupils were dilated, congested whites all too visible. "I've never thought this moment would come so soon, my boy." he grinded out with a breaking voice that sent a shiver down Carver's spine.

Was Bob ready to make such drastic decisions? Decisions that were probably most important in the whole history and, what was even worse and highly probable, irreversable?

A long, terrifying silence surrounded them. It was interrupted only by the sound of their heavy breathing and munching of something that Bob nervously chewed, which looked like a long, black noodle.

Not breaking the eye contact, Bob grabbed Carver's palm, linking their hands in a manly yet delicate hold. Jeremy felt his boss freeze, stiffen in full concentration, fearing what was about to come. He squeezed his hand so hard that Carver begun loosing the sense in it.

Singer took a step forward pulling him along, took a deep breath and muttered to himself "Three - three... to the right... seven - eight - four... to the left... three - five... to the right..." turning the knob at the same time.  
They heard a creak and the door smoothly slided to hide in the side wall.

 _What kind of magic is that?_ wondered Carver. Could Bob smuggle some parts of the Star Trek scenography? Something from the X-Files? Star Wars? Doctor Strangelove?! Jeremy, indeed, for a long time had already been suspecting that the parts to the Impala didn't disappear from the set on their own but was it possible to move such a big decoration? Bob must have been unscrewing this for years...

Acting completely on autopilot, Carver fished his phone out of his pocket to take a situational selfie and just as he positioned himself to catch the most flattering lighting for his profile (the one that made him look twenty years younger), he noticed that the signal was completely gone.

"A sixteen-inch-thick layer of lead underneath panels made out of steel and titanium." the pride was audible in Bob's voice. "No modern technology can reach us here. We can finally feel completely free, my boy." his face visibly lit up, when he cupped Carver's cheek and begun caressing him, softly yet manly. Tears welled in their eyes.  
"Finally." he added after a while. "Finally, my dear Jeremy, we are perfectly safe." Singer chuckled nervously, tweaked his mustache with his free hand, scratched his beard and then gripped his employee's waist in a strong, manly hold.  
"A nuclear bunker?" Carver whispered into his ear, nuzzling into it as he were there. "No homo." he added, fondly resting his head on Bob's shoulder.  
"No homo." responded Bob quietly and took a step back.

Just for a moment more they keept staring into each other's eyes deeply. Then, holding hands, they stepped across the threshold, unsure of what the future held for them.

In the center of the dark room, in a beam of light stood a round, sizeable conference table. A layer of dust, thick for few good inches, covered an old-fashioned landline phone with a big, red bulb of unknown purpose. Next to it lied a completely yellowed piece of paper filled with rows of numbers and symbols that didn't tell Carver anything.

 _Well..._ thought Jeremy. _Bob has always had a weak spot for the cold war style of the late USSR._


	3. Cold War

The door to the oval office swung open unexpectedly and a visibly shaking secretary run into the room.   
"Mister... Mister producer? ...Sir?" she breathed out; her cheeks were throbbing red, her voice was trembling just as were her hands.

Jim Michaels looked at her with a fearful gaze and while she was unable to choke any words out, a long silence that they both were afraid to break fell between them.

"... Code...Rainbow" she finally stammered, the fear clear in her eyes.

***

"Put me the president of the Internet on right now!" Michaels heard Bob Singer's voice in the earphone of the landline phone.  
"Who?"  
"The president of the Internet, goddammit! Jim? There just has to be someone out there who runs this whole thing!"  
"I don't think I get what you're trying to..."  
"I don't think you get what's going on here and you should be the first one to know!" Bob cut him off mid-sentence, choking on his saliva in the process. "As I recall you were supposed to be my private Minister of the Propaganda!"  
"Do you mean... the boss of the PR?"  
"What's the difference anyway? Do you know what's going on on that whole Titter?"  
"Twitter."  
"Whatever the hell, Jim. You know what I'm talking about."  
"Bob, if you think that I haven't taken any measures..."  
"Apparently they weren't effective!" Singer shrieked so loud that the earphone vibrated in the sweaty hands of his interlocutor.  
"But my people are voting for the competition all the time" Jim's voice was shaky. "From the shows that nobody is even watching these days and they are first. Besides, even if Destiel makes it to the top five it won't win anyway. I won't let that happen."  
"Do not say that name in my..."  
"Okay, okay, I'm not saying. But stay calm, we've got everything under control here." Michaels chuckled nervously.  
"Listen, I don't care what you'll do, D. shall not pass to the next round. Understood?" Bob's teeth emitted a strange creaking sound.

Jim closed his eyes, trying to gather his wits and then let out a stream of words. "I believe my resources for that case had already run out... Trending tags on Twitter is open and anyone can check the number of casted votes at any time, visiting any site that measures the popularity stats of the given phrase..." a silence fell on the other side of the line; Bob was apparently processing the information. "The point is" Jim took a deep breath. "Even if we hacked the system, the information had already been spread worldwide and now what's left for us to do is to pray that the holders of the contest will reject..."  
"Pray?" the growing frustration could be heard in Bob's voice. "Pray, Jim? We do not pray. We handle the matters so that **we** are the ones they are praying to!"

Michaels swallowed hard and swiped the sweat off his forehead. It was hard for him to admit but not to beat around the bush, they really were in a deep shit.

"And you know what I mean by handling the matters..." Bob continued. "Wasn't that you who bragged about knowing everyone in this industry?"  
"Yes, but..."  
"Get hold of the contest runners. Buy us some time. Prolong the wait for the results until everyone forgets what happened today. Old methods, pal, always the most efficient." Bob cleared his throat. "I'm waiting for a report. Remember - as long as it takes for them to forget, Jim!"  
"But..." the call ended. "...the Internet never forgets." Michaels added but his boss didn't hear that. 

 

 

When on that dark, rainy night all these years ago he had been drinking Jack Daniels (the most manly of all the alcohols!) with Bob and basking in the cosy warmth of the fireplace in his oval office, no one had expected such a turn of events. Outside, the hail had been banging on the car roofs, wind howling in the trees, tearing the power lines, while they were discussing one of the most important agendas of their lives. Maybe even the most important one in the history of american television. Or the whole humanity.

"Bob." Michaels had cleared his throat. "Listen, if we are to employ all these people... and we're talking an army of internet trolls, touts, and professional haters here, I need to have a certain warranty of... anonymity." he had made a pause. "We're walking on a thin ice, you need to know that whatever we throw at them, they'll tear it apart. Once set in motion, this machine can never be stopped."

Bob had pondered, had rolled a glass in his hands and had stood up, his eyes never leaving the flames that he had watched lick the logs through the crystal.

"You know, simplicity is always the most effective. And our tactics have to be just like this."  
"All I'm saying is that we have to proceed with caution."  
"A conventional strategy of vicitm blaming, Jim. Do you know what I'm talking about? Every time something bad, anything bad, happens to our series, you say it's the D. fans' fault. All the way until they start to believe in this and stop demanding their thing." Bob had taken a big gulp of alcohol. "After all, what they're doing completely lacks respect for me, for you... the actors! That's what you should tell them. That's what you should make them think. Convince them that they're delusional. That they're a threat and a shame to the show itself, that they are doing something evil, that other fans hate them. And keep telling them that until they're afraid to speak up, eaten up by their unquestionable guilt."

A conventional strategy of victim blaming? Where the hell did he get that from? A training in North Korea?

Jim had smiled ambigously. "Do you mean fan shaming?"  
"Whatever the hell the kids call it these days." Bob had smirked.  
Michaels had taken a deep breath and seated himself deeper in the armchair. "You're a genius, Robert." he had said. "Seriously, I'm telling you, you're a genius and I can tell that since I have met few geniuses in my life. But..." he had made a pause and nodded significantly towards the bottle; Bob had reacted immediately and filled up his glass. "But, my friend..." Jim had continued. "Don't you think we may be crossing a line, going somewhere we may not be able to return from?"

 _Wouldn't it be better if we've spent this evening playing mini golf?_ he had added in the privacy of his mind because, he had to admit, this whole discussion was boring him immensely and he could use some fun. He had never quite gotten why everyone in this business was so serious and rigid. Snobs.

Bob had sat down again, this time seemingly much more distressed as if the armchair upholstered with crocodile skin had completely lost any sense of comfort it could provide during these few minutes.

"Jim." Bob had cleared his throat and glared at him icely. "You know we have to scare them off. Discourage them from even wanting to pick up this topic." he had delicately caressed the base of Jim's palm. "The rules don't matter in such cases. They taught me that in Vietnam and it still is adequate always when..."

He had kept talking on and on but the rest of his utterance seemed to escape Jim's understanding. The words had glued together into one solid and sticky mass and resembled a thready grease similar to a chewing gum. That's what it had reminded him of, a bubble gum someone stepped into while running on a sun-melted asphalt on a summer day. He had had this impression that every sentence, every single word that escaped Bob's mouth was physically sticking to him, taping his mouth so that he couldn't open it up, and pulling his eyelids down, making them heavier. Simultaneously a mysterious buzz had been growing stronger inside his head, the vision had become unclear and he could swear that the walls surrounding him had begun to fancifully bend, throwing him impish glances. When he blinked few times though, everything had been back to normal.

"I hope you understand it's a matter of the highest prority." Bob had finished with a seductive whisper and squinted, measuring his interlocutor with an alcohol-blurred vision.  
A thunder had rumbled outside and a lighting lit up the sky. Involuntarily Jim had turned his head towards the window, delicately removing his hand from beneath Bob's bristly palm.

"If this ever goes public... I just need to be sure that this whole Destiel business will remain something that's just between us, Singer. We're talking my whole career here." he had pointed towards the shelves sagging under the weight of medals, stattuetes and diplomas with thanks for his hard and fruitful work.  
"I can certify that the operation 'nohomo' is under a strict and fully professional control..."  
"Whose control?"  
"Mine, obviously." Bob had lit up visibly and took a swig of Jack Daniels, this time directly from the bottle. "You said yourself that I'm a genius so you can sleep peacefully."  
Jim had swallowed hard. Sometimes he really should have been able to bite his tongue.  
"Besides..." Bob had added cryptically. "I'm paying you."

 

 

A memory of that evening often haunted Jim Michaels both in his dreams and in reality. He remembered the strong, acrid odour that surrounded them on that stormy night. He remembered Bob's frenzied eyes, his pupils glinting reddish. His hands covered in scratchy bristles, his raised tembre of voice, the way his lips had showed his unnaturally long incisors as he spoke, the way he had scratched his nape, moved his mustache, perked his ears... Wait, hold on for a second... Perked his ears? Jim's thoughts must have wandered into some dangerous regions and the flashbacks of that evening had always seemed to be a little incoherent. He blamed the alcohol intake for that.

 _Let's not go down that road, Jim. You're fine. It's just years of sumptous life in Hollywood talking, man. Don't put on a show, you're not mad._ he repeated that like a mantra.

Jim took a look around. He was still standing in a small, garden raid shelter with the earphone of the crisis line in his hand. When he took a look at his watch he realised he must have been standing like that for a good quarter. It was almost 10am and at 11 he had a planned virtual cricket match with Hugh Hefner! The business can wait. Everything that Jim needed now was a moment of relaxation and what could be more relaxing than a nice game with the boss of the Playboy empire. Especially when the poor, already infirm Hugh always napped at unexpected moments, usually during the second round. And that meant an hour of video conference with one of Hef's busty protegees, who, as the etiquette of the Playboy's mansion stated, was obliged to entertain Hugh's friends on such occasions.

 _Thank you, oh Lord, for video conferences!_ thought Jim, finally putting the earphone down. Yes, he was working his fingers to the bone but this was all for a reason, right?

He smirked to himself and approached one of the concrete walls where, behind an armored glass, stood various alcohols displayed in a light of rainbow-hued neon.  
"Apocalypse without Mojito would be a real catastrophy." he said to himself, opening the minibar with a shaking hand.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please, drop by and leave the author of [the original work](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4321359) some love. Trust me, it's even better than what you can read here :)  
> If you wanna know how's it going with the next chapter, check out [my very informative page](http://the-rising-demonmistress-of-styx.tumblr.com/updates) I made solely for that purpose.


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